


Blood and Steel

by kireteiru



Category: Dracula & Related Fandoms, Dracula Untold (2014), The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: A Lot of Handwaving for Magic and Technology, Also He's Mellowed Out A Lot, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, And That Stoker Was An Asshole, Arda Restored, Based More on Historical Dracula than Stoker's Dracula, Battle of Five Armies but with Vampires, Blood, Dagor Dagorath, Dhampirs, F/M, Half-Vampires, Her Name Is Sahar, M/M, Smut To Come In The Future, Temporary Character Death, This Is Why I Can't Have New Fandoms, Vampires, Violence, Vlad Has A Niece, Vlad Is Bard, Vlad Thinks "Dracula" is Garbage, Vlad is a Huge SPACE NERD, because reasons, come on now, it's vampires, some gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-14 16:38:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10540383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kireteiru/pseuds/kireteiru
Summary: After being imprisoned for a small eternity, the Impaler awakes in a strange new world.





	1. Awake

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Return of the Prince](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3847408) by [To_Shiki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/To_Shiki/pseuds/To_Shiki). 



> This is why I can't be trusted with new fandoms. I promise that "Never Forget" WILL, in fact, get finished. Also, I got the job.

So much death…

Thranduil moved slowly through the corpses carpeting the grasslands. ‘The Dagorlad,’ they were calling it now, ‘the battle plain;’ unimaginative but fitting. The bodies of orcs and other fell beasts far outnumbered those of Men and Elves. Even so, they had lost far too many. His father lay among the dead; so did his mother and younger brother. So many of his friends were gone, too, fighting bravely and skillfully but finally overwhelmed by sheer numbers.

Movement drew the prince from his reverie, the scrape of metal over stone and the clinking of chains. He drew his sword and followed the sounds as quickly and quietly as he could.

Beyond the edge of the Dagorlad proper, Sauron’s armies had excavated a deep pit. At the bottom was a stone structure still half-buried in the earth, a spire or bell tower of some kind, but not from any age he recognized. The scraping noises were coming from somewhere inside it.

Thranduil descended to the floor of the pit using the ramp the enemy forces had built, then sneaked over to the spire. There was no one else visible nearby, but under the surface, in the spire, the scraping stopped, replaced by Black Speech in guttural voices.

Orcs.

There was a stair inside the spire, old and worn and half-rotted, leading down into the dark. The elven prince descended slowly, carefully, mindful of every step. Yet as he walked, the scraping resumed, heavier this time, stone over stone. Right as he reached the bottom of the stairs, there was a heavy _thud_ , then silence.

The elf paused, listening.

The sounds of battle split the silence without warning, the orcs struggling against some sort of snarling beast. Thranduil wasn’t sure how many there were on either side, but one by one the orcs were falling silent. Their battle cries and shrieks of pain died away to gurgling breaths, then nothing. All that was left was the sound of something panting.

Thranduil was reluctant to face whatever it was that the orcs had unleashed, but at the same time, if he could not, how could he ask his people to do so?

Every step down the hall seemed deafening, the slightest rustle of his clothing and armor incredibly loud in the silence. The prince was sure that whatever it was, knew he was there and was lying in wait for him, yet he could not bring himself to care.

The hall opened up into a wide chamber, half-excavated. What drew his attention was the stone coffin in the center of the chamber. It had once been bound shut, but the silver-plated chains now lay pooled around it. Its lid was also silver-plated on the inside, and marked with a cross not unlike the ones Sauron used to kill prisoners when he was feeling particularly cruel.

There were four orc corpses in the chamber, all seemingly uninjured but still dead just the same. At the center of them was a Man, pale and gaunt, wearing strange armor, patterned with black scales with a red dragon motif. He was lying on the ground where he had fallen, propped up on his elbows but head bowed, forehead resting against the stone floor. He was panting heavily, that much was clear from his heaving shoulders, but his thick, dark hair obscured his face.

Then the Man lifted his head.

He had a noble face, full lips, and an edging of facial hair along his jaw and also his upper lip. He would have been attractive, were it not for his glowing red eyes and the black blood dripping from his mouth.

Thranduil drew himself up, tightened his grip on his sword, and the Man growled at the threat, baring bloodstained fangs, and started pushing himself up. When one of his hands landed on the chains, the elf heard the sizzle of burning flesh, and the Man jerked his hand back with a hiss of pain. The Man’s glowing eyes never left him, studying him intently, yet the more he looked at the elf prince, the more confused he seemed to become.

Then he hissed again, and lunged – and broke apart into a swarm of shrieking black bats. The elf prince leaped backwards, bringing up his blade, but the bats shot past him down the hall. He sprinted after them, but by the time he reached the stair, they had already flown to the top of the spire and vanished out into the world.

Thranduil walked back down the hall to the main chamber, kicking aside the corpses as he approached the coffin. Aside from the cross on the lid, there were no carvings or reliefs or documents indicating what the creature was, though the elf prince could probably guess based on the way it had killed. His father had told him stories about Morgoth’s vampires from the First Age, but they had been half-bat _beasts_ , mindless creatures that existed only to serve the Shadow and prey on the living, not… _this_. He had to be old, very old indeed, not one made by the Enemy. He had been sealed away and buried deep in a forgotten age of the world, and now Sauron’s forces had unleashed him again.

* * *

The War of the Last Alliance eventually ended, yet Thranduil had seen only one sign of the vampire’s continued existence – an entire battalion of orcs drained of blood and impaled on stakes, leading the elf prince to tell Elrond, Gil-Galad, and Galadriel about him, and show them the half-excavated tomb. But neither hide nor hair of the Man was seen during the seven-year Siege of Barad-dûr.

That had been for the best, at least for them. No doubt Sauron had been hoping to make an ally of him, but instead he killed a number of the Maia’s men and vanished.

Yet as he rode back to the Greenwood with the survivors, Thranduil couldn’t help but wonder what became of the vampire from the tomb. Who was he? Where had he come from, and where had he gone? How had Sauron known where to find his prison? (Such information had been destroyed with the collapse of the Dark Tower, and so would remain forever a mystery.) Perhaps most important of all, what would he do now that he was free at last?

When he had asked the questions of Elendil and the other Elf Lords, they had no answers to give.


	2. Bloodlust

The world was changed, so greatly changed that not even the air smelled the same. The world that he last remembered, the one of glass and steel and _electricity_ , had passed away, regressing back to an era even earlier than when he’d been born.

He hadn’t even gotten to go to Mars, God dammit.

Vlad kept his hood low to shield him from the returning sun. The great clouds of darkness and evil that had blanketed the land were rolling back, dissipating, revealing clear blue skies and normal storms. People were celebrating in the streets of the strange white city he’d finally come to rest in after seven years of running, but he could sense what the humans could not – the darkness was only defeated, not destroyed. It still rippled and festered in the secret places of the world.

The world was changed… and yet it was not. Three tiers down and four streets over, a man was being murdered over a handful of coin. One tier up and twelve streets over, four men were gang raping a woman in celebration of the Alliance’s victory.

“Times and technology change, but people don’t,” Vlad muttered to himself, then stood up and left the tavern where he’d been lurking, waiting out high noon. He’d been lingering near the door, listening to the languages of the land, this “Middle-earth.” The common tongue was very like English, but with strange new rules – masculine and feminine nouns, formal and informal pronouns… The script was strange, too; it flowed elegantly, but resembled nothing he’d ever seen before.

The vampire began making his way down to the main gate of the city. He had been on the run from the Enemy’s forces for all seven years of the siege, feeding on the orcs sent after him even though their main fortress was under attack. While it had been nice to rest a few days in the city, he felt the need to move on – and maybe go looking for that elf who had been present when he was released. Even covered in the blood and grime of battle, he had been beautiful, unearthly. And his _scent_ – a hundred times better than the silver and stone of his prison, a _thousand_ times better than the  beasts that freed him – he smelled of woods and winter and wine, smelled of _home_. He hadn’t wanted to kill the elf, but even after draining the “orcs” he’d been too famished to bear his presence for long.

So he’d fled, and sought out the scent of more orcs and drunk his fill. The taste of it made him retch – like drinking straight sewage – but blood was blood.

And by then? By then the Men and Elves had been marching into the cold and blackened land where the orcs dwelled. He had fled again rather than risk getting caught up in a battle, especially when he had no idea what was going on, who was fighting and why. Now he knew enough to have sided with the Men and Elves, but then he knew less than nothing.

The sun began dipping nearer to the horizon. A surprising number of people had pressed coin into his hands as he walked, thinking him a beggar based on the state of the stolen robes and cloak he wore over his armor. He had taken it, of course, though he had been careful to never handle the silver barehanded. The blessed pendant he had received from the High Priestess of Amaterasu let him walk around in the sun without being burned, but it still left him vulnerable to a vampire’s other weaknesses – stakes, silver, holy symbols.

Vlad was away from the city but they time the sun set. When he was sure he was alone, he took flight as a swarm of bats, vanishing into the night. He had run wildly and randomly all over the west, but now he allowed his flawless sense of direction to lead him home.

It was one thing to know that Wallachia was gone. It was another thing entirely to see it with his own eyes. The mountains in the north had been leveled. The thick forests had all turned to dirt and patchy grass. The only longtime residents were bugs and their predators; traders passing through never lingered longer than necessary, sensing that there was something _off_ about the land.

Yet when he dug his fingers into the soil, Vlad knew that he was home. He let out a shuddering breath.

Then he became aware that he was not alone. His enhanced senses picked up the approach of men on horseback, his sonar mapping out their positions in the darkness. All but one were asleep in the saddle. He hunched down in a patch of long grass, drawing the night close around him to hide him from their sight as the horses plodded closer.

Bandits, vagabonds, servants of the Enemy. He saw them clear as day, their horses walking slowly eastward across the endless plain. His mouth watered even as his throat dried up. Fresh, _human_ blood. In a split second, Vlad made a decision – and lunged.

When he came back to himself what seemed like seconds later, all the men were dead, completely drained of blood. Their horses were standing nearby, shivering and stinking of fear, but they hadn’t bolted. The prince immediately moved to soothe them, stroking their noses and murmuring nonsense in a gentle tone. Bit by bit, they calmed, letting him look through their saddlebags. It was all the standard stuff: dried food, wineskin, change of clothes, tarp for a tent, tinderbox, sewing kit…

Some of the clothes looked like they would fit him. He tugged off his tattered robes and cloak, then began unbuckling his armor. Yet as he did so, something fell from between the plates and padding.

It was a cell phone, an old iPhone with a solar-charging case. The battery had run dry during his long imprisonment, but the phone itself was in the same condition it had been in when it had been slipped in with him.

By Mina.

Who knew how much time had passed, but the memories were still fresh as the day they were made: his wife luring him into a church, a dozen holy men wielding the Sign of the Cross, enemy soldiers lifting his weakened body into the coffin, Mina leaning over him and whispering apologies as she tucked something under his breastplate between armor and padding, the lid sliding home overhead and being chained down as he’d cringed away from the Cross and silver.

Vlad clenched his jaw. As much as he wanted to crush the phone and be done with it, Mina had done _nothing_ without cause. Neither had any of his other partners throughout the years, for that matter. In a way, that was what had drawn him to them, and them to him; they wouldn’t do something just to do it. There was always a reason behind it. Better to find what message she had left and know for sure, than destroy it and spend the rest of his time wondering.

The vampire stripped off the rest of his armor and dressed in the supple linens and leathers of the bandits, then wrapped his armor up and stowed it in the saddlebags. The phone he kept on him as he searched the bodies. Their coin he took, and their weapons, poor though they were – even worse than when he was still human.

When he’d gathered all he could, he mounted up and turned the horses south, back towards the lands he’d come from. The war was over for now, but with all the animals lost in the fighting, the horses would be worth quite a bit. Perhaps enough for him to start rebuilding his wealth, and maybe go see the fate of the rest of the world.

* * *

“My lord Thranduil, there’s something I think you should see.”

The elf prince raised an eyebrow at the scout captain, but at the look on the other elf’s face, he decided against any remarks he might have made. “Where?”

“Ahead. This way.”

Thranduil spurred his horse into a canter, following the scout ahead of the train and a little to the right of their path through the Brown Lands. It wasn’t long before he spotted another mounted scout waiting, and smelled the unfortunately familiar stench of rotting flesh.

The bloated corpses of six Easterlings lay half-hidden under the long grass. They had been stripped of their valuables and weapons, and some more generic clothing. There had been horses, too, taken by whomever had killed them.

Or _whatever_.

The elf prince swung down from his horse and approached the nearest of the bodies. Days of bloating and rot and discoloration still had not obscured the cause of death: a punctured throat, with a very visible bite around it. The others were the same, yet showed no sign of having fought back against their killer.

The vampire from the tomb had killed the orcs the same way. Could this be him, too?

Thranduil pulled back and examined the area. The vampire had arrived out of nowhere, it seemed, and knelt to dig his hands into the dirt. Then the Easterlings stumbled across him while ahorse. It tackled the first one to the ground and drained him before the others could react. Yet they were taken down with little resistance – had they been asleep? He had slaughtered them all, taken their horses, and then headed south toward Minas Anor, though it remained to be seen if that was his final destination.

“My lord, what would you have us do?” the scout captain asked.

What indeed. Whatever else the vampire may have been or claimed to be, he did not appear to be an ally of Sauron or Morgoth. His mind flew back to the invasion of Mordor – an entire battalion of orcs slaughtered to a one and impaled on spikes.

“My lord?”

“Leave it. The trail is days cold. Whatever this is, it may not be our ally, but it does not look to be our enemy, either.”


	3. From Past to Present

“Who have you lost?”

The elf king’s head jerked up. It was the vampire from the tomb, completely silent in his arrival. Two thousand years had passed since then, and he was as unchanged as an elf, albeit no longer as gaunt and covered in blood and grime from the war against Angmar. “I beg your pardon?”

“Your scent,” he said, “You smell of grief, personal grief. Who have you lost?”

Thranduil waved to dismiss the guards who had brought him after the king spotted him on the battlefield. When they were gone, he sighed. “My wife. She died protecting our son.”

The vampire gave him a sympathetic smile with a faintly bitter edge. “I know your pain – I’ve felt it myself, more than a few times. I’m sorry for your loss.”

The elf inclined his head in acknowledgement, then settled back on his throne. “And who exactly are you?”

“Vlad III Dracula,” he answered without even a hint of a lie, “Former prince of Wallachia, where the Brown Lands now lie, and last of the Night Lords. _Vlad Țepeș,_ they called me once. _Vlad the Impaler._ ”

Thranduil hummed, remembering the orcs. “Vlad,” he repeated, rolling the strange name around on his tongue, “And how did you come to be locked away in that tomb, and for how long?”

“There was a great war on, with terrible weapons that reshaped the earth. I returned to Wallachia to defend my people, but the enemy captured my children and so my wife tricked me into being locked away in hopes of saving them. I don’t know if she succeeded. That was nearly a hundred thousand years ago now.”

The elf inhaled sharply at that. “Vampires do not live so long as that.”

“Maybe not the ones _you_ know,” Vlad answered, “The oldest I ever met was almost ten thousand at the time. I was only a hundred. Different kinds of vampires, just like there are different kinds of elves.”

That made a certain amount of sense. “And ‘Night Lord?’”

“Originally, it was a title for the first vampires alone, a coven of witches who summoned a demon and bargained for immortality. Eventually one or two of them got it into their heads that they were superior to mortalkind and should be the ones to rule them. They started seeking out leaders among men, powerful warriors and wise generals, and turned them into vampires. One of them came for _me_ , early in the year 1477. I wanted to outlast my enemies and protect my people, so when it was offered I took the blood.

“When I found out what they wanted, why they chose me…” He huffed quietly, his lips quirking up in an acidic smile. “I was only a hundred then, including my mortal years, but I challenged my maker… and by some _miracle_ , I won. I drank all his blood and then staked him, and so came to be counted amongst the Night Lords.”

“Yet you called yourself the last.”

“I have not been idle in the two thousand years since last we met, King Thranduil,” said Vlad, a little amused, “I have roamed the world, seeking others of my kind, walking unhidden through the night. Some answered, but all were young, less than a thousand years old, and none were Night Lords. Unless they live beyond the Sea, I am the last.”

The elf raised an eyebrow. “I can’t imagine that the Valar would permit vampires to reside in Valinor, no matter how pure their hearts.”

The vampire chuckled and shook his head. “Not in Valinor, or even Aman. There were mortal lands across the sea, called the Americas. I lived there for a time, and so did two other Night Lords that I know of, but when I returned home after war broke out, they passed out of my knowledge.” He sighed. “More than likely, they are no more. The War spared no land, no matter how far-flung.”

“Some vampires… were your friends?”

He smiled a little. “Yes. Some were _good_ friends. We all worked together at NASA – we were on the shortlist to go to Mars.”

Thranduil frowned. “‘NASA?’” he repeated, “And ‘Mars?’ What are those?”

“NASA is where we all worked – it stands, well _stood_ for ‘National Aeronautics and Space Administration.’ They designed and built ships that could fly out beyond Arda and into the stars. They even landed men on the moon.” He smiled at the elf king’s visible awe. “Mars is another planet that goes around the sun like the earth. It the War hadn’t started, my team and I would have been the first people to land there.”

“That disappoints you. That you didn’t get to go.”

“Yeah.” The vampire’s smile turned bitter. “I’ve always been fascinated with space and the stars – one of the few things I thank the Ottomans for. If I hadn’t been a prince, I would have spent my time studying the heavens. After I became a vampire, I had all the time in the world. When I heard about the Space Race, the challenge to land men on the moon, it was like a dream come true, and I wanted so badly to be one of them. _So_ badly. But it wasn’t to be, at least not then. There were plans laid later, to go back again and set up permanent facilities… but then the War happened, and it all fell apart.”

“It sounds wondrous.”

“Some of it was. Not all, but some.”

“You said you had a family? A wife, children?”

“Yes. My wife, Mina – short for Thamina – and our son Dumitru and daughters Saidah and Taaliah. Mina and I actually met because of NASA.”

“Were they vampires like you?”

“Heh, no. My kind cannot breed vampire-to-vampire. We create more of us by passing on the blood. To produce biological children – that is, our own flesh-and-blood descentants, it has to be vampire male to human female, and even then the children are only half-vampire.”

“Female vampires cannot bear children with a human man?”

“No. The womb dies.”

“That hardly seems fair.”

“My niece would agree with you.”

“Your _niece_?”

“My brother’s daughter, Sahar. When he and I were young, we were political hostages of the Ottoman Empire. I returned home eventually to become prince after our father was deposed, but he stayed, got married, had children… and sold Sahar to be one of the king’s concubines to assure his loyalty, even though she was _far_ too young, even by the standards of the time. I was already a vampire then, and I entered the palace with the intention of assassinating the king when I overheard the guards talking. I offered to take her away, and she accepted. And later, when she was older, I turned her into a vampire.”

“What happened to her?”

“She became a healer of unsurpassed skill and roamed the world with me for a time. Eventually we went our separate ways, but we always kept in contact and were reunited now and again. We both went home to Wallachia during the War, but I never heard what happened to her. I can only assume that she was imprisoned like me or killed, because when I called she did not answer.”

Thranduil crossed his ankles. “I suppose I can guess what you’re hoping for.”

“Aa.” He nodded slightly. “But she wasn’t as… _difficult_ … as I was. I hope for the best… and greatly fear the worst. Even if she was imprisoned, I’ve no idea where to even begin looking for her.”

The elf prince eyed the vampire, then sighed and stood up. “You are a creature of darkness,” he said, “but you do not serve the Enemy.”

“My flesh is tainted, but my mind and my soul are still my own.”

Thranduil nodded and stepped forward, removing the silver manacles that bound the vampire’s wrists. As instructed, the guards had put them on _over_ his sleeves so as to avoid burning his skin. “You are under no obligation to do so,” he said as Vlad rubbed his wrists, “but I would like you to come with us back to the Greenwood, and live nearby.”

“So you can keep an eye on me?”

“Partially, but also so if you are discovered, you have a safe haven near at hand.”

The vampire’s eyes snapped up to meet the elf’s. “You would offer me sanctuary?”

“You have not yet given me a reason not to. In addition, I believe you would make a better ally than enemy.”

* * *

The whole way back to the forest, the vampire answered more of the elf’s questions about various aspects of the Old World, explained in terms he could understand, and also about the discoveries made by various space agencies around the world. Much of it went over the elf king’s head, along with the shamelessly eavesdropping Silvan Elves’, as none of them had 3 PhDs in Astronomy and Astrophysics and Chemistry like Vlad did, but what they could understand left them in awe.

“If men never traveled beyond the bounds of the ‘Solar System,’ how could they know that other stars have planets around them?” Thranduil asked, guiding his elk along the path next to Vlad’s horse, “I cannot see how that is possible.”

“If something passes between you and a candle, the candle’s light seems to dim, right? The same thing happens when a planet passes between us and a star. It was referred to as a ‘transit.’ There were machines in orbit around the earth that would look at the stars, and if one seemed to dim and then brighten again, we would take a closer look at it. That’s how we discovered – four of the seven planets, I believe – around a star called Trappist-1, among others. There were other ways of finding them, but that one’s one of the easiest to explain and understand.”

“What were some of the others? Just the names, if they are not easy to explain.”

Vlad opened his mouth, then closed it again, frowning. “Well, there’s direct imaging. It was _very_ rare, but sometimes we could see the planets directly. But that usually took a _lot_ of doing, and the conditions had to be _exactly_ right.

“Then there’s radial velocity, reflection/emissions modulation, relativistic beaming, ellipsoidal variation, gravitational lensing, and star timing. I’d explain those, too, but they require an understanding of the nature of stars that would take _decades_ to impart, because I’d have to explain all the technology used to discover them, too.”

“‘Star timing’ sounds relatively simple.”

“Only relatively,” the vampire answered wryly, “but a wise man once said that if you can’t explain something simply, you don’t understand it well enough, so I’ll make an attempt. Basically, a certain type of star… sends out bursts of a very particular energy on a regular basis. We called them ‘pulsars’ for that very reason, because when we received the signal, it sounded almost like a pulse, a heartbeat. Some of the bursts were so regular that even a tenth of a second’s variation in timing for a burst was enough to tell us that something was there, interfering. Sometimes it was a planet, sometimes it was another star whose brightness couldn’t be separated from the pulsar.”

“This ‘Old World’ of yours sounds full of wonders.”

“In some ways it was,” Vlad replied, “but there was a lot wrong with it, too. So much _hate_ … It took discoveries we made for the good of humankind and turned them to evil ends. When I traveled beyond, into the east and south-“ He waved a hand in the general direction. “-I saw the ruins of places I had been, still uninhabited after all these years, the earth itself poisoned by nuclear weapons, once meant to give clean power to the whole world.” His brow furrowed. “I’ve seen their effects before. It’s not a fate I would wish on _anyone_ , not even Sauron or Morgoth.”

“Terrible indeed, then.”

The vampire nodded and clenched his jaw. “I would talk about something else now.”

Thranduil let the matter drop. “You mentioned that your people were of the night, yet you move easily in daylight.”

Vlad let out a bark of laughter at that. “There’s a bit of a story behind that. There was a lot going on in Middle-earth at the time, or ‘Europe’ as it was known then. It was the beginning of the Industrial Revolution, and those early machines were not quiet and clean as they were in the Old World’s last days. They groaned loud and unceasing, and belched ash and smoke into the air – both unbearable to heightened vampire senses, but none of us could halt the progress forever. Sahar and I fled Europe, and went as far east as it was possible to go without crossing the ocean.

“There was an island nation there in those days, peaceful and quiet – or so we thought. Within a day of arriving, Sahar and I were roped into rescuing the high priestess of their sun goddess, because she had been kidnapped by monsters, ogres and the like, led by a demon. They thought that sacrificing her during a solar eclipse – when the moon blocks the light of the sun – would cause the darkness to become permanent. They were holding her behind a barrier that only creatures of darkness could cross, so her underlings cast a spell that caused a rock to fly and seek out the most powerful and non-malicious creature in range.” He rubbed his forehead, chuckling. “I think I still have an indent in my skull from how hard it hit me.

“But Sahar and I agreed to help, and we entered the barrier and loosed the priestess’s bonds – and then she _blew them all away_. She made the sun shine _in the middle of the night_ , leaving us both in awe, and admittedly a little scorched by her power. In thanks for our help, she laid the blessing of her goddess on both of us, letting us walk in daylight without fear. We lived there for a long time in peace, helping protect her and her successors. – At least, until the Industrial Revolution followed us there.”

“I do not like the sound of this ‘Revolution.’”

“Aye.” Vlad absently carded his fingers through his mare’s mane. “Now it would probably be considered the work of Sauron or Morgoth. In truth, it brings me joy to know that that world is gone.”


	4. Death or Sovngarde

When there was no sign of Vlad among the human refugees following Smaug’s attack, Thranduil feared the worst. So did many other elves, if the number of volunteers was anything to go by. He picked four of his most skilled and stealthy guardsmen, and together they left Mirkwood for the ruins of Dale.

The night made the destruction look even worse, fires still burning throughout the city and throwing odd shadows across ruined walls. The elves moved quickly but quietly through the broken towers and buildings, checking all the bodies for the vampire while also keeping an eye on the mountain. At last, Thranduil heard a quiet gasp of his name and turned to find the Lord of Dale lying badly burned and half-buried under rubble. But his eyes were open, glowing red in the darkness, and he was taking shuddering breaths.

The Elvenking knelt next to the vampire, shivering in sympathetic pain. Though he had long ago healed from his own injuries, his soul remembered the heat of dragonfire, the pain of it searing every nerve without destroying them, leaving him writhing in agony. He pressed his wrist against the vampire’s mouth and gasped when Vlad bit down. The burns visibly decreased in severity but did not fade away entirely. That would take more blood than the elf alone could give at one time.

Thranduil pulled away when he began feeling lightheaded. The vampire swiped his tongue over the wound, collecting the last of the blood and also sealing it shut. Although it wasn’t enough for him to be completely healed, it let him limp away from the ruins under his own power, albeit using the last Black Arrow as a crutch.

He had made a surprising number of friends among the wood elves, teaching them about space and the stars and commissioning an impressive telescope for the Elvenking’s halls, and so there were nearly a dozen willing blood donors waiting for them on the edge of the wood. The vampire took enough for them to make it to the Woodland Realm, where additional elves helped literally _rip off_ his mostly-melted armor before letting him sleep.

Which he did.

For a month and a half.

Thranduil went in to check on him often, and each time he was as limp and still as a corpse, not breathing or twitching or showing any signs of life at all. Though the healers assured him that the vampire was alive – for his particular definition of the term – the king didn’t truly believe them until Vlad took a deep breath, and opened his eyes.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like shit,” the vampire rasped, then started coughing harshly.

Thranduil rang for a servant and helped him sit up. In less than a minute, another elf arrived with a pitcher of cool water, a bottle of wine, and two slender goblets. Without hesitation she set everything down and knelt next to the bed, offering her throat. Vlad murmured his thanks and bit down. He released her when he felt less like he had actually died, and the Elvenking dismissed her to retire to her chambers for the rest of the day, then turned back to the vampire. “What happened?”

“Damned dwarves and their damned gold sickness is what happened,” Vlad growled, accepting the cup of water from the elf (while wishing for wine but knowing it wouldn’t affect him – vampires couldn’t get drunk or high), “I _told_ them I was low on Arrows after I shot down the other two dragons, but they didn’t do a damned thing about it until I sold them the emerald necklace. Too obsessed with their fucking _gold_.” He threw the drink back with an angry hiss. “How many made it?”

“You don’t want to know that.”

The vampire hissed again. He had been the Lord of Dale for nearly a century, and had known almost everyone in the city – all the artisans and craftsmen, the gardeners and farmers, the parents and children. The fact that Thranduil wouldn’t say… “I need to get back there.”

“You need _rest_.”

“My people need me, Thranduil!”

“And you will do them no good right now,” the Elvenking said firmly, “A month and a half you have slept, and you are _still_ not fully recovered.”

“Smaug-“

“-can wait. He has entered the mountain and not yet emerged, and your people have moved to the other side of the Long Lake. You must be patient, Vlad. You have an eternity to lie in wait for him.”

He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “At least tell me if my wife and son made it.”

“They did.”

Vlad sighed again, and accepted a second cup of water. His eyes fell on the last Black Arrow, leaning up against the wall next to the door. “Damned dwarves,” he grunted again, “What happened to _them_? Did any of them survive?”

“Some,” the elf king admitted, “but as far as I know or care to know, they have gone to seek shelter with their kin in the Iron Hills.”

* * *

Vlad eventually slipped into Laketown during its reconstruction, seemingly just another refugee. It had been a good time to shed the identity of “Girion,” and so he had left behind all the trappings of the Lord of Dale, even shaving off the scorched remains of the beard he’d grown and cutting his hair back to its usual length. He did check on his wife and son, but she died of disease before the year was out, epidemics running rampant through the survivors. He took his son in after that, and much to his surprise the boy recognized him. Unfortunately, he was one of the weird dhampirs who had all the powers of a full-blooded vampire with none of the weaknesses, but aged incredibly fast as a consequence; after his powers showed during puberty, he died of old age before his twentieth birthday.

The vampire took his identity and lived quietly under the rule of the new “Masters of Laketown,” each one worse than the last. But he made a life for himself despite them, as a liaison with the Woodland Realm, even if the people of Laketown only knew him as a bargeman whose wife died in childbirth, leaving him alone with their children.

He kept a close eye on the three of them, because they acted… _different_ than his usual spawn. The vampire often spotted them talking quietly together with looks of confusion on their faces, staring around at Laketown as if they hadn’t lived there all their lives. They didn’t correct him or act uncomprehending whenever the Master pissed him off enough that he switched back to speaking Romanian or one of the other languages of the Old World.

And then one day, as he was tying up the boat at the dock near their house, he heard Tilda’s childish voice cry, “Then _I’ll_ ask him!”

He raised both eyebrows at that, a brief smile flickering over his lips, before he continued knotting the rope around one of the pilings and giving it a brief tug to make sure it would hold. When Vlad straightened and turned, his youngest was toddling down the steps toward him. “Da!”

“Hello, little one.” He scooped her up and tickled one of her bare feet, making her squeal as he walked back the way she had come.

“Da, you still got teeth?” she asked seriously as he started up the stairs to where Sigrid and Bain were waiting, their scent anxious.

“Teeth? Of course I still have teeth. Couldn’t eat without them.”

“No!” She shook her head so fiercely that it made her lightheaded. _“Teeth!”_ she repeated insistently – and then put up fingers to mimic fangs, making him freeze on the steps.

Vlad couldn’t help but stare at her. He’d been very careful to keep his vampirism a secret under the rule of the Masters, not allowing even the tiniest flash of fang or wing within a mile of the town or anywhere he could be seen by its residents. How…? “Yes,” he said at last, dazed.

Tilda squealed in delight, and then growled at him, her hands curled into claws – just like Taaliah used to do, because she would never go to sleep unless he growled into her closet and under her bed to “scare away the other monsters, ‘cause they’re ‘fraid of you, Da.” When he didn’t react aside from blinking in shock, she growled again, more fiercely, and purely out of reflex he let out a low rumble in reply. She cheered again, and both of her elder siblings looked relieved.

“It’s good to see you, Da,” Sigrid said quietly – _in Romanian._

When they all were inside, he said, “Sadiah, Dumitru, Taaliah,” and all three of his children grinned. “How is this possible? None of the others…”

“We don’t know,” Bain answered, “This has never happened to us before – or at least, not to me.”

The girls shook their heads, too.

“How much do you remember?”

“It comes back a day at a time,” Sigrid told him, “We dream it at night.”

One day at a time, which meant that they were still too young to remember the War. It hadn’t started until Taaliah – Tilda – had been thirteen, but now she was only four. When they asked, he summarized the end of the world they knew as best he could, though all of them gasped in horror when they heard what their mother had done.

“But, but why?” Sigrid demanded, “She knew that you could have rescued us, right?!”

“I don’t know what she thought, fiică,” he said, putting Tilda in her high chair and taking a seat at their kitchen table as his two eldest finished with dinner and set it out, “All I know is what she did, and the message she left me on my cell.”

“Your _cell_? As in, _a cell phone?_ One that still _works?!_ ”

“She left a voicemail downloaded onto it.” He pulled the waterproof pouch from his coat, removing the phone and setting it on the table. He had taken _very_ good care of it over the millennia, such that even the case was barely scratched, and still functioned like new. They all knew that if it broke, there would be no fixing it; none of them had the skill.

Sigrid took it and woke it up. “No signal?”

“There aren’t any satellites still in orbit. Communications satellites are usually in low earth orbit, and their orbital decay periods – that is, how long it takes them to fall back to earth – were usually 8 to 10 years. They’re all long gone.”

“I thought there were some that could compensate for that.”

“They would have run out of fuel, with no spacecraft to bring more.”

“Wait! That means the ISS is gone! I hope no one was still up there!”

“Iran, North Korea, and China straight up refused to help, Israel, India, and Japan had their own problems to deal with, and France just went dark. NASA wound up doing an emergency recommissioning of the Space Shuttles, because Germany dropped missiles on Russia’s launch pad in Kazakhstan, and the other one was never finished.”

“I’m impressed you remember all that, but at least the astronauts made it home.”

“For what it’s worth, yes, they did.”

* * *

His children grew up twice over, once by day and once by night. As the eldest, Sigrid reached puberty first, and started showing limited signs of vampire powers – communication with bats and other nocturnal animals, enhanced senses, and slightly reduced aging – but nothing to the degree that her late elder brother had shown, making her a fairly normal dhampir just like last time.

Vlad’s other children had run the gamut, from the “full-blooded but fast aging” kind, to middle-of-the-road like Sigrid, to “essentially human but _very_ long lived.” Bain had been the same as Sigrid last time, and Tilda had been showing signs of the same; unusual, but not unheard of.

For seven years they lived content in Laketown, though they missed the opportunities and conveniences of the Old World – different ones, mostly, but they all agreed that they missed the nearly-year-round warmth of the southeastern United States. Laketown was _cold_ , “cold as balls,” as Bain put it once.

And then the dwarves came, and though Thorin didn’t recognize Vlad as Bard, the vampire sure as hell recognized him. His protests before the Master went unheard in the face of the man’s greed, but it all came to naught anyway. Smaug came.

Vlad broke out of the prison cell by kicking his way through the outer wall, and felt absolutely no remorse when once of the iron bars from the window went flying through the air to knock the Master half-silly as he tried to escape with Laketown’s treasure. (He would of course deny that he threw the metal bar himself.) He would have killed and drained the man, too, if it weren’t for the dragon attacking.

The vampire pulled himself up onto the roof and sprinted for the armory at full speed, uncaring of who might have seen. On the way, he saw that the windlance had already been taken down, smoldering in the water. He didn’t even know if Bain had managed to conceal the Black Arrow from the Master’s men, although it hadn’t been in the armory or on the Master’s boat. He just hoped his normal old arrows would be enough, and brought two bows in case he misjudged his strength and snapped the wood.

Vlad remembered well the scale that had been broken off by the second of his last three Arrows. The gap was still there; the intervening two-hundred-odd years had not healed it in the slightest. He cut the rope pulling the bell – the loud ringing right next to his sensitive ears would not help his aim – then jumped up onto the railing and drew.

At the last second, Smaug changed direction, and the arrow skipped off his scales and vanished into the night. Vlad hissed and drew again.

Arrow after arrow he shot; some connected with the gap, but none had enough force behind them to pierce flesh. He fired off his last arrow and was about to throw down his bow and scatter into bats, try to latch on and bring the dragon down by hand, when he became aware of footsteps and a familiar heartbeat. “Bain! What are you doing?! You need to leave!”

But Bain just heaved the Black Arrow into view. The last of his Arrows – the last hope.

Vlad let out a short gusting sigh, and gripped the shaft. “Bain, you need to go. Find your sisters-“

“Da!”

The vampire whipped around, a snarl in his throat, then hunched over to shield his son as Smaug took the top off the bell tower. The staircase to the top fell away, forcing him to heave the dhampir up onto the platform. Bain was locked up, shivering at his near brush with death, forcing his father to pry the Arrow from his grasp.

Smaug landed close by in the town, crushing already burning buildings underneath his bulk.  **“Who are** _ **you**_ **that would stand against** _ **me?!**_ **”** the dragon demanded, turning to look at the immortal.

Vlad grabbed for one of his bows, only to find that _both_ had been broken in half when Smaug smashed into the tower. With the windlance down… He looked around frantically for some option, _any_ option.

 **“Now that** _ **is**_ **a pity,”** the dragon nearly purred, confident in himself once more, **"What will you do now,** _ **Bow Man?**_ **You are forsaken. No help will come.”** He began walking toward the vampire through the field of fire, crushing the buildings beneath him. **“Ah. Is that** _ **your**_ **child? You cannot save him from the fire. He will** _ **burn**_ **!”**

That made Vlad stop, and go cold – a biting, _angry_ cold. He turned slowly to meet the dragon’s gaze, eyes blazing with red light, and let out a hissing growl that rivaled Smaug’s for ferocity. He took both halves of the most intact bow and firmly embedded them into the remaining posts of the bell tower, with the bowstring taut between them. He put the Black Arrow to the bowstring, and laid the front end of the Black Arrow on the shoulder of his son, who stood as the new center of the bow, facing Bard. Bain panted heavily, the scent of his fear so great that the vampire could smell it over the ash and flames, listening to Smaug approaching from behind but unable to turn back and see him. “Stay still, son,” Vlad said in the gentlest voice he could manage, “Stay still.”

 **“Tell me,** _ **wretch**_ **,”**  the dragon demanded, **“How now shall** _ **you**_ **challenge** _ **me**_ **?!”** He lifted his head – a mistake that would prove to be his undoing, for it clearly revealed the missing scale to the archer, and now he had a head-on shot.  A small smile pulled his lips up, his fangs sliding out.

 **“You have nothing left, but your DEATH!”** the dragon bellowed, and charged.

Vlad let out a terrible, utterly inhuman roar, a ferocious challenge, one loud enough to be heard over the sounds of the dying town. Yet instead of increasing Bain’s terror, the sight of his father’s fangs and claws calmed and steadied him. He met Vlad’s gaze without fear, which calmed the vampire in turn. He drew the Arrow back as far as he dared, mindful of its weight and the tensile strength of the string. “A little to your left.”

Bain did as he said, moving the tip of the arrow to the right, toward the spot where Vlad had broken off the scale on Smaug.

“That’s it,” he said, and let the Arrow fly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes on Dhampirs Here: they're half-vampires, but have an array of powers with certain drawbacks, depending on what their power is.  
> As with Vlad's "Girion-son," they have the powers of a full-blooded vampire without the weaknesses (human blood nullifies them), making them very difficult to kill. But as a consequence, they essentially burn through their life force sustaining that kind of power in living flesh, and so age super fast.  
> The "middling" dhampirs like the "Bardlings" have _some_ vampire powers and weaknesses (ie Sigrid's mentioned powers), but nothing that would let them go toe-to-toe with a proper vampire. Since they aren't using their own life force to sustain the power of a full vampire, they age at about average speed (a little slower with less powers, a little faster with more).  
>  Then there's the dhampirs that are essentially human - no powers, no weaknesses - but they have incredibly _long_ lives, on par with those of the Dunedain (aka Aragorn, who lived to be 210). They usually live to be 250-300 years old, assuming they aren't killed.  
>  So basically the trade off is life for power. You want more power, you give up more life; you want to live longer, you have no powers.


	5. Before the Storm

Vlad had never been more grateful that Laketown was, in fact, a lake town, built over water. If they had been on land, he probably wouldn’t have made it out – too much fire, too much like the Sun and the end of Dale. As it was, when the tower fell over into the water with Smaug’s death throes, the vampire oriented himself, found his son, and hauled them both to the surface. Bain clung tight to him, sputtering in confusion, but once he adjusted, they swam for shore, the dhampir holding on to his father’s shoulders when slackening adrenaline left him weak and shaky.

They reached the beach just as dawn began coloring the horizon. When Vlad noticed, his hand flew to his throat, and he heaved a sigh of relief when he felt the blessed pendant still there. He had tested himself against the sun without it in the past, and while he no longer burned to a crisp in its light, it was still far from pleasant.

Bain passed out shortly after the sun cleared the horizon. Vlad wrestled him out of his wet clothes and wrapped him in a thick and reasonably dry curtain he found amongst the wreckage washing up on the shores of the lake. The vampire didn’t have to worry about getting sick from the cold, but dhampirs weren’t so lucky.

After such an ordeal, he would have let the boy sleep for as long as he liked, but not bundled up in a curtain on a beach at the beginning of winter. Vlad gave him a few hours, then shook his shoulder. “Bain.”

“A new hand touches the beacon…” the dhampir muttered as he came awake.

“Don’t start that shit again.” Vlad couldn’t help but smile when his son giggled. “Come on. We need to find your sisters.”

And find them they did. God or Eru or _whoever_ had been merciful yet again; his family had been spared from the fire. Not everyone had been so lucky. Leave it up to Alfrid to ruin the moment, though; of _course_ he had to survive, too. But there was no sign of the Master with him – a small mercy, but the vampire took it.

It had been two hundred years, but he fell back into a leadership role with ease, organizing the survivors and leading them to the ruins of Dale. Though it would inevitably mess up their weather later, Vlad also used his power to keep the skies clear and the wind low, the heat from the sun helping to dry them all out and keep them warm during their long march.

Once they arrived, he had the healers set up in the most intact buildings at the heart of town with everyone else fanning out around them, and got Percy to gather a team of haulers to break the ice and bring water up from the frozen river. There was no food to be found in the Desolation, but they had water aplenty, at least.

After night fell, he began calling in bats to roost in Dale and Erebor, both to keep a protective eye on his people and keep insects and other pests away from what food they had managed to save. Others he placed under the command of a little matriarch named Whisper and sent them fanning out across the countryside, remembering Legolas’s warning concerning others who would want possession of Erebor now that the dragon was dead. The vampire himself flew back to Laketown, and scavenged what he could from the wreckage while tallying the dead. More than half the town’s population had perished, either in the fire or the aftermath, and Vlad was pleased to count the Master among them.

He returned to Dale with the dawn, to find that the Wood Elves had mustered and marched on the mountain, bringing with them cartloads of supplies for the survivors. The Elvenking had come, too, leading his armies to claim his treasure from the mountain – the White Gems of Lasgalen, his family’s heirlooms. The vampire managed to persuade him against the nuclear option right out of the gate, but in vain; Thorin refused to honor their bargain, stinking of sickness and greed. Even appealing to his sense of justice and honor did nothing. He rode away disappointed.

Of course, the people of Laketown were angry, too; they had suffered the dragon’s fury twice now because of the dwarves, and now they were denied reparations. No amount of respect for “Bard” could have stopped them from preparing to fight for what they deserved.

And then the wizard came.

When the bats told him and he focused, Vlad sensed him at a distance, a bright star of purity against the festering darkness that was even now returning to the east, to the blackened and barren land of Mordor. He intended to warn Thranduil of his coming, but half a dozen people came up to him all at once with problems to be solved, making him lose track of time. The next time he thought about it was when he heard Alfrid telling the wizard to get lost.

There was nothing for it. When the wizard demanded to know who was in charge, the vampire approached and inquired, “Who is asking?”

The wizard turned to him, and almost immediately, his staff was pressed against the vampire’s chest, crackling with power – but then he heard the familiar creak of elven bows being drawn. Before and behind him, Vlad saw dozens of elven archers ready to fire if the Maia went through with his attempt on his life.

“Mithrandir!” Thranduil barked, “Do you have a problem with the King of Dale?!”

“Not a king,” the vampire said reflexively as the Sindarin Elf descended the stairs to stand next to him.

“You will be,” the Elvenking replied smoothly, then turned back to the wizard, awaiting an answer.

The wizard reluctantly lowered his staff, eyeing the pair, but it took several moments more for the blond to signal the archers to stand down. “This is… Bard,” said Thranduil, his gaze locked with the wizard’s, _daring_ him to call the elf out, “A longtime friend and ally. Bard, Gandalf the Grey, also known as Mithrandir, the Grey Pilgrim.”

The Maia nodded stiffly, a gesture the vampire returned, albeit more respectfully.

“Go ahead and see to your people,” said the elf, “I’ll handle this.”

“No,” said Gandalf, apparently reminded of his original purpose, “If you truly do speak for Dale, you will need to hear this, too.”

Elf and vampire exchanged glances, but withdrew to speak in the relative privacy of the king’s tent. “You must set aside your petty grievances with the dwarves,” the wizard insisted, “War is coming! The cesspits of Dol Guldur have been emptied. You’re ALL in mortal danger!”

“What are you talking about?” the vampire asked, exchanging another glance with the elf.

Thranduil snorted inelegantly. “I can see you know nothing of wizards. They are like winter thunder on a wild wind rolling in from a distance, breaking hard in alarm. But sometimes a storm is just a storm.”

“Not this time,” he shot back, shaking his head, “Armies of orcs are on the move. And these are fighters! They have been bred for war. Our enemy has summoned his full strength.”

“Why show his hand now?” the elf demanded.

“Because we forced him!” Gandalf replied, “We forced him when the company of Thorin Oakenshield set out to reclaim their homeland. The dwarves were never meant to reach Erebor; Azog the Defiler was sent to kill them. His master seeks control of the mountain. Not just for the treasure within, but for where it lies, its strategic position.” As he spoke, they left the tent through the rear and walked outside to what was once part of the throne room, from where they could all clearly see the gates of Erebor. “This is the gateway to reclaiming the lands of Angmar in the north,” he continued, “If that fell kingdom should rise again, Rivendell, Lórien, the Shire, even Gondor itself will fall!”

Thranduil smirked a little. “These orc armies you speak of, Mithrandir - Where are they?”

Gandalf was unable to answer. The elf’s smirk widened, and he turned back to his tent.

The wizard strode after him, demanding, “Since when has my council counted for so little? What do you think I’m trying to do?!”

“I think you’re trying to save your dwarvish friends. And I admire your loyalty to them, but it does not dissuade me from my course. You started this, Mithrandir,” the elf hissed, “You will forgive me if I finish it.” Thranduil called to one of his attendants, “Are the archers in position?”

“Yes, my Lord,” was the reply.

“Give the order. If anything moves on that mountain - kill it! The dwarves are out of time.”

Gandalf turned to the vampire. “You, Bowman! Do you agree with this? Is gold so important to you? Would you buy it with the blood of dwarves?!”

“It will not come to that. This is a fight they cannot win.”

Suddenly, the Halfling of Thorin’s company emerged from the ruins and addressed them. “That won’t stop them. You think the dwarves will surrender? They won’t. They will fight to the death to defend their own.”

“Bilbo Baggins!” Gandalf said brightly, and the hobbit smiled and followed him into the tent to be presented to the king.

The elf’s eyes narrowed. “If I’m not mistaken, this is the halfling who stole the keys to my dungeons from under the nose of my guards.”

Bilbo swallowed and radiated discomfort. “Yes. Sorry about that.” Then he stepped forward and put a ball of cloth on the table. “I came... to give you _this_.”

He unwrapped it to reveal the Arkenstone. Thranduil rose in surprise, and whispered, “The heart of the mountain! The King’s Jewel.” He moved to stand next to the table, a hand hovering over it.

Vlad withdrew with a hiss, red light sparking in his eyes as he looked at the stone.

“Vl-Bard?”

“That stone is the source of the sickness,” he growled, “Smaug’s lingering will is bent upon it, within it, given greater power by it – do not touch it barehanded.”

Thranduil withdrew his hand immediately, and both the wizard and the hobbit paled. “Then what can be done with it?” the elf asked, “It may be worth a king’s ransom, but if it truly is the cause of Oakenshield’s madness, we cannot very well give it back to him.”

Vlad let out an angry sigh. Despite their auspicious meeting, he had heard stories, legends of the Grey Pilgrim, and held a healthy respect for him and what he did – and also what this hobbit had done, was doing, to save his friends. “Whisper.”

A bat squeaked and fluttered out of the gathering darkness to cling to his coat.

“Is what Gandalf says true? Is there an army of orcs coming this way?”

She squeaked, whistled, and chirped, and continued for several minutes. At one point, something she said made the vampire’s eyebrows shoot into his hairline, his expression surprised, then hopeful.

When at last she stopped, Thranduil prompted gently, “What news from the night?”

“Gandalf speaks the truth,” Vlad said, his mind still partially elsewhere, watching the bat climbing up his sleeve, “There is an army coming this way – two of them. One from Gundabad, the other from Dol Guldur. The latter is coming underground, through tunnels dug by something the bats describe as ‘great earth-serpents, with terrible jaws.’” He mimicked mandibles with his fingers.

“Were-worms,” the wizard said almost immediately.

Vlad nodded. “But there was something else – the bats have discovered something unearthed in Erebor that they thought would be of interest to me.” His gaze snapped up to meet Thranduil’s.

_“A stone coffin, bound by silver chains.”_

The elf straightened sharply, eyes widening. “Another vampire of the Old World? Is there any way to tell who it is without opening it?”

Vlad shook his head. “It was completely sealed – the silver interfered with our senses, preventing us from detecting the outside. It’ll probably be the same case trying to sense _in._ ”

The Elvenking folded his fingers, and briefly squeezed them. Then, “Go. Do what you must.”

Vlad turned to Whisper. “Show me.” The little bat took off into the night, and he broke up into a swarm to follow.

At last, Gandalf rounded on Thranduil. “You are allied with a _vampire?!_ They are servants of Morgoth, and drain the life of all around them!”

“Vlad had two thousand years to cause havoc between when he was awakened and when we were reunited, Mithrandir, yet at my request, he has lived in the shadow of the forest so I can keep an eye on him. And he knows better than to change anyone within a hundred miles without my leave,” the elf said coldly, “He has been a loyal ally and one of the only non-elves I call _friend_ for the past one thousand years. Many of my elves have befriended him, too, and donated to him, and they are still alive. I should think it fairly obvious that he is very different from those _beasts._ ”

“He is still a creature of darkness, Thranduil,” the wizard tried, “If the Enemy calls, he cannot help but answer.”

“And yet he has warned us about the Arkenstone, about Azog – rather than join him in ravaging Laketown, he _shot down_ Smaug,” the blond shot back, “As I said, he is not one of _them_ – is far older and more powerful than they could ever hope to be. He told me once that his flesh was tainted, but his heart was still pure. You’ll have to forgive me if I trust _him_ over _you_.”

An uneasy silence fell, broken only by Vlad’s joyful return a few minutes later. He was no longer alone.

A woman coalesced out of bats with him, darker-skinned and with a black scarf covering her hair, but she wore the same armor that the other vampire had when he was released: steel plate, patterned with black scales and a red dragon motif.

“Everyone,” the male vampire began, grinning widely, “this is my brother’s daughter, Sahar Dracula. Sahar, Thranduil, the King of the Woodland Realm, the Wizard Gandalf, and the Halfling Bilbo Baggins.”

The elf stood and bowed, and greeted her in accurate if accented Old World English. “/It is an honor to meet you at last, my lady. Your uncle has told me much about you./”

“/Only good things, I hope,/” she answered with a smile, returning the bow.

“/For the most part./”

“/Uncle…/”

“/What? I only told him about the Cake Incident./”

“/Uncle!/”

“/Would you rather I told the story of the Forest Fiasco?/”

“/…Never mind./”

“/Yeah, that’s what I thought,/” Vlad said, and earned an elbow to the side, making him chuckle.

“Two of you now…” Gandalf muttered, attempting to mask his surprise at their light-hearted interaction.

“Don’t _even_ think about it.”

“/Auntie?!/”

Both Vlad and Sahar turned to find the three dhampirs standing at one of the tent’s openings. Tilda was the first to recover, and rushed into the vampiress’s arms, laughing in delight. “/Taaliah!/” Sahar cried, and swung her in a tight circle, also laughing, “/You turned blonde!/”

“/We were reincarnated,/” said Bain as he and Sigrid bounced over to hug her, too, “/but we’re still Da’s kids./”

“/I can see that. You all have the Dracula eyes./”

“‘Auntie?’” Thranduil asked the male vampire.

“Technically she’s their cousin,” he answered, “but she’s so much older and more experienced than they are, that all my children have called her their aunt.”

* * *

Eventually, the meeting broke up. Bilbo and the dhampirs were almost asleep on their feet – Tilda actually _was_ asleep, carried in her father’s arms, her head on his shoulder. The rest of them all needed sleep in preparation for the coming battle, especially the vampires. Reports had been coming in from the bats all night, Whisper relaying the speeds and positions of the oncoming armies, and everyone had a good idea of where they would strike and what they needed to do to defend themselves.

Yet as Vlad and Sahar exited the Elvenking’s tent, they noticed right away that there were an unusual number of people in the area, especially for so late at night, all of them attempting to look busy. The elder vampire pursed his lips and exchanged glances with Sahar. Then he stepped forward. “If you have something to say, then say it.”

All the eavesdroppers looked around amongst themselves. One by one, their gazes landed on Hilda, who glared around when she noticed but ultimately stepped forward. “You’re one of them vampires.”

“Yes, but not ones made by the Enemy.”

“How?”

“Both of us are over a hundred thousand years old.”

Sahar inhaled sharply. “It’s been _that long?_ ” Her Westron was as Thranduil’s English had been, accurate but accented.

Vlad nodded, then turned back to Hilda. “You never said nothing,” she said, putting her hands on her hips.

“In my experience, times and technology change, but people don’t. I became like this to save my people from an enemy I could not defeat as a mortal Man, but that didn’t stop them from trying to kill me when they found out. Gandalf but looked at me and would have tried the same.”

“My own father tried to cut off my head when he learned,” Sahar said quietly.

“You drink blood, like the ones from the stories?”

“Yes, but we have always taken care of our own.” Addressing the crowd at large, he asked, “Have you ever blacked out, lost time, and woken up with a full belly and three days’ wages in your pocket? Now you know why. We _always_ take care of our own.”

Murmurs were starting to race through the gathering crowd, but Vlad couldn’t really pick out the few dissenting voices.

“And the orcs? What are we gonna do about them?”

“Sahar and I have faced bigger armies with better weapons and still come out on top,” Vlad replied, “both separately and together. Leave the orcs to us.”


	6. Shattered Shields

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some gore in this chapter, be ye warned.

On Thranduil’s orders, someone had unearthed Vlad’s original armor from the depths of Mirkwood’s storage, where it had been packed away after his initial arrival a thousand years prior. He helped Sahar back into her matching set, which she had taken off to sleep, and then she helped him into his. Riding out of the city on horses specially bred by the elves to bear vampires without fear, they looked like a dark king and queen, completely at odds with the bright elf and wizard.

Vlad explained the gist of the situation to Sahar on their way to Erebor’s main gate, although Thranduil snorted derisively at many of his elaborations. At the end, the elder vampire said, “And as you can hear, the esteemed Elvenking of Mirkwood does not think highly of dwarves.”

“Of course not,” the elf replied from where he was leading their train, “It’s their fault we’re in this mess in the first place.”

Sahar looked between elf and vampire, eyes half-lidded with an amused smile curling the edges of her lips. Then she turned to Vlad and asked in Romanian, _“Are you two dating?”_

_“No.”_

Her smile widened into a grin. _“You sound disappointed, Uncle.”_

_“I don’t know if he’s interested, and I’m worried that if I make a move, it’ll ruin our friendship. He had a wife, and he’s got a son. But seriously, can you blame me? Look at him.”_

_“I can see how he’d appeal, especially to you.”_ She fell silent as they arrived before the gates of the mountain.

Despite all his kingly dignity and finery, Thorin did not hesitate to fire a warning shot at the feet of their mounts. Gandalf’s horse started, jerking to one side, and Thranduil’s elk stamped a hoof, but Vlad’s and Sahar’s horses just seemed thoroughly unimpressed. One of them lifted their head to snort in the dwarf’s direction, making the Elvenking smirk.

Vlad ignored Thorin’s threat and guided his horse to the head of the group, his niece at his right hand. “Our purpose in coming back here is twofold, Thorin Oakenshield,” he said, gazing up at the dwarves without fear, “The first: to deliver a warning. Azog is coming.”

All of the dwarves were instantly silent, the last of their jeers echoing off the stone into silence.

“He is leading an army up from the south, easily ten thousand strong, and a second force of similar numbers is coming from the north. They will be here before noon.

“The second: to tell you that payment of your debt has been offered, and accepted.”

Of course, that was when everything went to hell. The mad dwarf tried to throw Bilbo from the ramparts – which Gandalf put a stop to – and then Dáin Ironfoot, Lord of the Iron Hills, arrived with his army. While the dwarf exchanged insults with the Elvenking, both vampires stiffened and looked toward the ridge opposite Dale on the approach to the gate.

Sahar met her uncle’s gaze. Then as one, they swung their mounts around to face away from Erebor. “They’re coming,” she said, her voice echoing off the rock, silence falling as Vlad closed his eyes. Overhead, the clouds started building, lightning arcing through them.

Then the were-worms broke through the surface, shrieking.

Both vampires jumped down from their horses. “Return to Dale!” Vlad shouted to the elf, wizard, and hobbit.

“What about you?!” Thranduil demanded.

The vampire grinned and let his fangs extend, his eyes glowing red. “Leave them to us. Go!”

“What’s the plan?” Sahar asked as the others took off for the ruined city, their riderless horses in the lead.

“Remember the assault on Castle Dracula in _Dracula Untold_?”

“Oh _yeah_.” She cracked the knuckles of both hands and grinned nastily, her fangs sliding out, too. “Let’s do this.”

They began walking toward the ranks of orcs emerging from the tunnels, working their way up to a full on sprint faster than any human or Elf could have matched. Just before they collided, Vlad heard Sahar shout, “Let’s get ready to _rumble!_ ”

And then it was absolute chaos. Every orc that came in arm’s reach of a vampire wound up getting torn apart by their claws and fangs. They weren’t safe if they were out of range, either – Vlad started bringing down lightning and sending it arcing from orc to orc, while Sahar made the desolation’s surviving plants grow fast and large, their roots breaking through the earth to grab and squeeze the orcs to death or send them flying through the air to crush their fellows. The bats got involved too, whipping through the ranks and clawing at the faces of the orcs to keep them off balance long enough for the vampires, dwarves, or Elven or human archers to finish them off.

Vlad retained enough awareness to stop himself from killing any dwarves he encountered in the melee, but otherwise he gave himself entirely to the beast, the part of him that never stopped thirsting for blood. He was only vaguely aware of the Company emerging from the mountain, the dwarves rallying to their king, just aware enough to send a cloud of bats to escort them to Ravenhill and help them out when they engaged Azog.

He was reunited with Sahar briefly during the fighting, and she looked just as crazed as he was, both of them covered in blood and gore. She grinned at him, and he at her, and together they seized a nearby foe and ripped him in half.

* * *

The battle seemed to last for days to Vlad’s enhanced senses, the hordes of orcs only slowly thinning out until at last there were none. The Great Eagles and their companions Radagast and Beorn cleared out most of the second army before they could get in range of the main battlefield. Dale and Erebor were safe, for now.

A long, slow rain began to fall. Vlad barely felt it where he stood in a cluster of pikes and spears, orcs impaled on every one. He was coming back to himself and inch at a time, the blood frenzy fading, but not quickly enough for his tastes. His jaws snapped shut on empty air, grinding together.

Sahar stumbled over, just as glutted on blood as he was. She leaned against one of the pikes, which started sprouting, and growled, “Welcome back, Lord Impaler.”

“I haven’t been called by that name in a long time,” he replied, breaths still leaving him in heavy pants.

“Well, you’ve earned it yet again.” She waved at the battlefield.

A forest of stakes carpeted the valley between Dale and the gates of Erebor, not as thick as he would have liked, but ordinarily he had more to work with in the way of pikes and spears and wood for stakes. Still, it made for quite a fearsome sight.

The vampires began heading back to Dale, walking at a human pace. By the time they reached the ruins, they were mostly calm, and clean, the rain having washed away the gore.

Sigrid, Bain, and Tilda rushed them first, the youngest dhampir nearly jumping into her father’s arms. The elder vampire gave all his children fierce hugs, then turned them over to the younger for the same.

The elves escorted them to Thranduil’s tent. Even though they didn’t have adrenaline anymore, the vampires still dropped hard after the battle, passing into the same corpselike state that Vlad had after Smaug attacked Dale, albeit only for a day.

Much to both vampires’ surprise, the people of Laketown were overjoyed to have such fearsome warriors as their leaders and protectors, save for a minority led by Alfrid, the slimy rat. But even some of them agreed with what Sahar said while Vlad was off treating with the dwarves: “When you saw the battlefield, you were afraid of us, weren’t you? Of us and our power. But we did all of that to _protect you._

“So how scared do you think Dale’s enemies are?”

No one could really argue with that, nor with Vlad when he returned to Dale with the treasure they were promised.

The elder vampire also used his power over the weather to keep their winter relatively mild. There were no blizzards or deep freezes; when snow did fall, it was long, but slow and gentle, and visibility remained good, letting them work through to spring.

Both Dale and Erebor were well on their way to being restored when the land thawed and let craftsmen and traders come up from the south. Fields were parceled out, plowed, and sown; orchards and forests were replanted. Trade treaties were restored. Much of Dale was remodeled entirely to allow for more “modern” conveniences that the vampires proposed and explained, and buildings were reconstructed and roads were repaved. After Smaug’s body was dragged out of the lake, Esgaroth began reconstruction, too, for some of its citizens were reluctant to leave their life on the water.

When the last snows melted from all but the highest parts of the Lonely Mountain, people began making noises about a coronation – or, rather, coronation _s_ – to make the vampires’ leadership official, Vlad in Dale and Sahar in Esgaroth. Eventually, they gave in and started laying plans, preparing housing, inviting guests. Dignitaries began arriving, representatives of both Men and Elves from everywhere in reach of messengers and could be reasonable expected to arrive in time.

Of course, the day came and went to hell in a handbasket.

The vampires sensed them approaching in the pre-dawn hours: a raiding party out of the east, and a fairly large one at that. When the younger (and newly “promoted”) Night Lord joined him on the top of the main tower of Dale, Vlad said, “I hear about three hundred.”

“Same here.”

“Think it’s the only one?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Mmm. Think we can take care of it before everyone else wakes up?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But,” Sahar gave him a fanged grin, “won’t it be fun trying?”

* * *

“What – seems – to – be – the – prob – lem – my – lord – Thranduil? Oof!” Vlad grunted when the elf shoved him up against a wall in the quarters he’d been given, the noise more of surprise than any real pain.

“What is the _problem_ ,” the Elvenking hissed, “is that you _persist_ in doing such _irresponsible things_ with your life!”

“Unlife.”

“ _Whatever!_ Valar _damn_ it, Vlad, _you need to be careful!”_

“The only one who knows how to do any _real_ damage to me is you,” the vampire snapped back, fangs lengthening a hair, “Silver is a minor repellent at best. Holy symbols only _really_ work if they’re from _our religions_ , wielded by priests of the order – and _no one_ practices Islam or Catholicism anymore except for _us_. And killing us… I trusted you with that secret centuries ago.”

Thranduil brushed an open hand over the vampire’s heart, then growled and nearly smashed their lips together. Vlad was startled, but only for a second. Then he responded, nipping at the Elvenking’s lips. The elf hissed against him, then turned them both and sent them tumbling onto the bed. Their hands fumbled over the ties to each other’s clothing, neither of them willing to part long enough to do the job properly, but Thranduil got frustrated with his inability to touch the vampire’s bare skin. He stepped back and started stripping. Vlad did the same, purposely writhing enticingly on the bed.

The Elvenking exhaled sharply at the sight and fell back on him with ferocity more becoming of a vampire, making the Night Lord laugh, then moan. He pulled the elf close, kissing him and spreading his legs without hesitation, allowing Thranduil to settle between them. The other immortal spent several minutes exploring him, learning what was sensitive and what wasn’t, what made him gasp and arch and what made him writhe under the elf’s hands. He tried to do the same, but Thranduil too easily drove him to distraction – seemed to get immense pleasure from doing so.

At last, though, fingers eased into him. It had been a _long_ time indeed since he had gone to bed with another male, much less been on the receiving end – at least since before Thamina in the Old World. But the elf seemed to have guessed that, and knew to be gentle, ease him into it again. He stretched the vampire out with oil, a finger at a time, slower than Vlad would have liked; he would heal swiftly and feel nothing but the glow of pleasure later. He growled sharply, a not-entirely-human sound, and Thranduil correctly interpreted it as a sign to get a move on.

The elf reared above him, wrapped his legs around his hips, and began slipping inside in one slow, smooth thrust. The vampire tried to move him along faster, wrapping his legs tighter and trying to pull the Elvenking in, but Thranduil was having none of it. He put his newfound knowledge to good use, distracting Vlad with pleasure.

He tossed his head back with a muffled moan. The elf felt so _hot_ and _alive_ inside him; he knew that he felt cool in comparison, but Thranduil didn’t seem to mind, sliding out and then back in again with smooth rolls of his hips. Vlad moved to match his pace, clinging to his shoulders while trying to avoid digging in with his claws.

Even though the endurances of elves and vampires were far greater than those of ordinary men, neither of them lasted long; they had spent so much time circling each other without knowing that finally being together completely overwhelmed them. Vlad came first after a direct thrust to his prostate, accidentally raking his claws down the Elvenking’s back, who arched and gasped at the bite of pain with his pleasure. He orgasmed soon after and slumped down on top of the Impaler Prince, panting heavily.

Eventually, Thranduil rolled off the vampire and lay slumped on the mattress for several minutes before at last moving to sit up – only to realize that there was blood smeared across his stomach. And Vlad’s.

“That’s normal,” the vampire grunted, for the nth time no doubt.

When the elf rubbed it between his fingers, it definitely had the consistency of normal semen; it just looked terrifyingly like blood, and smelled a little like it, too. He frowned. “Remind me never to give you head.”

Vlad started laughing.

* * *

When they rejoined the rest of society at last, the younger vampire turned to them without missing a beat and said, “I give that a seven. You two weren’t enthusiastic enough about your first time together.”

“Fuck off, Sahar.”


	7. Imperial Throne

After the vampires turned back the raiding party, there was a delay in the ceremony, though not a long one. (Vlad and Sahar needed to clean up; bringing in rain would have ruined the pavilion.) And then the two dressed in the simple but fine attire and walked out of Dale to the hill where they would be crowned, surrounded by a sea of people who had come from all over to see the Night Lords. Together, they knelt, and Gandalf gave a short speech that effectively amounted to a very diplomatic “y’all’re crazy, but whatever” and declared them King of Dale and Queen of Esgaroth, their crowns made from the Black Arrow that slew Smaug.

All the dignitaries had a number of gifts to give to the new monarchs of the “Twin Cities,” as they were becoming known despite being completely different. The vampires (and dhampirs) agreed that the best gifts were from the dwarves and elves. In response to Vlad’s complaints that he’d run low on Arrows as Girion, the dwarves gave them both six windlances and four dozen Black Arrows a piece, making both vampires laugh when presented with them.

“I could throw it if I had to,” said Sahar, hefting one Arrow like a javelin and making as if to aim with it, “although it wouldn’t be very good. Not balanced right for throwing.”

“Windlances are more accurate, and can put more power behind it.”

“What, really?”

Vlad nodded with an amused smile, then stood to receive the gift of the elves.

Even the dwarves were awed. After Smaug’s body had been pulled from the lake, the elves had taken possession of it. No one had known why they wanted it, and so hadn’t protested.

Now they knew.

The finest elven smiths of Rivendell, Lórien, and Mirkwood had come together and forged two fine suits of armor from the dragon’s bones and scales, incredibly light but tougher than anything else ever made. There were matching swords and bows of dragon bone as well, the blades honed to a razor-sharp point with a dulled tooth forming the handle, just like Orcrist.

Sahar let out a soft but fierce curse in Arabic, one that Vlad added to in Romanian. The former tested her sword with a few short forms while the latter drew his bow, chuckling quietly as he felt the strain in his arms from the pull for the first time in millennia.

“What is it, Uncle?”

“I’ve always had to mind my strength with every other bow I’ve used – I can’t count the number I’ve broken on accident.” He laughed. “We’re not going to have that problem with these.” He bowed to the elves as he had to the dwarves. “They’re magnificent. _Thank you._ ”

* * *

Thorin’s coronation was a week later, after all the celebrations from the vampires’ wound down. It was considerably more formal, with centuries of dwarven tradition behind it. Again, Gandalf gave a speech that amounted to “y’all’re crazy, too, but whatever” and crowned the dwarf king, too.

And then there was more partying, even more raucous than before. Dwarven ale flowed even more freely than it had before, along with some Dorwinion wine they had imported specifically for the occasion.

The vampires sipped from goblets of alcohol to be polite, but even the Dowinion didn’t give them even the tiniest buzz. Of course, being two of the only sober people meant that they got to laugh at others making fools of themselves – and also notice when others slipped away. It was Sahar who spotted him, but Vlad who went after him.

“Master Baggins.”

The hobbit jumped almost a foot in the air and whipped around when the vampire spoke.

“If you’re intending to slip away in the night, may I at least escort you to the edge of Mirkwood? King Thorin would be beyond furious if you died in vampire territory, especially after all that’s happened between you two.”

“I’m not leaving the Mountain,” Bilbo hastened to assure him, “Just getting some air.”

Vlad’s lips twitched up. “Too many drunks making fools of themselves?”

Bilbo smiled and huffed quietly. “Something like that.” He stepped up onto the battlements proper and took a deep breath of the night air.

“In that case… may I ask you something?”

“Certainly.”

“What is it that you carry?” At the hobbit’s confused look, the vampire said, “You have something that has an incredibly _dark_ aura, one that I have not felt directly for a _long_ time. What do you carry?”

Bilbo frowned and dug through his pockets. He didn’t have much: a few bits of stray thread, two handkerchiefs, the consort seal of Erebor –

-and a small golden Ring.

“May I?” When the hobbit gave his consent, Vlad picked it up – and felt a chill of fear pass through him, the likes of which he hadn’t felt since he was human. Such a small thing it was, but with an ocean of darkness and hate seething in it. Unbeknownst to the hobbit, as he held it pinched between his fingers, he squeezed it with all his power, yet the band did not deform even the slightest.

It reached for him. He hurried to give it back to Bilbo without seeming like he was doing so. His heart was his own, but he was not immune to its call. “I cannot say I advise keeping that, Master Baggins. It’s power is far greater than you or I could ever hope to master. But if you feel you must, at least tell someone else you have it, preferably your wizard friend.”

Bilbo frowned even more sharply, and the Ring’s aura flickered in something like alarm. “But it’s just a magic ring,” he protested, “All it’s ever done is make me invisible.”

“And so it would seem to you. But mark my words – if you insist on keeping it, it will twist you to its own ends, none of them good.” Vlad met the hobbit’s gaze. “Either you tell the wizard, or I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter. Almost done. Next one is the last, then back to Never Forget. Also, I got the job, so updates for that are going to slow down even more, because I'm full time now.


	8. Beauty of Dawn

So much death…

Thranduil moved quickly through the corpses carpeting the grasslands. The Dagor Dagorath was over at last, the threat of Sauron and Morgoth ended for good, but the elf had no time to celebrate with the survivors. He was looking for someone, one very particular someone. “Vlad?!”

The vampires had proven to be invaluable allies time and again throughout the centuries, first with the Battle of Erebor, then with the discovery of the One Ring and the War that followed. Despite Gandalf’s continued belief that they would turn on their people, they never had, taking good care of the people they led (and even ones they didn’t). The Twin Cities had prospered under their rule, and their knowledge of the Old World science and technology gave them an advantage that others didn’t have.

“Vlad!”

Their alliance endured long, but eventually the dwarves died off, and the empires of Men began encroaching on Eryn Lasgalen. When his people began fading, Thranduil knew then that it was their turn, at long last, to sail.

The trip took weeks and weeks of preparation, time that the Elvenking used to wear Vlad down and convince him to come with them to Valinor. The vampire was insistent that the Valar would not tolerate his presence, but in the end he threw up his hands and relented. In retrospect, that should have been a very clear sign that he was planning something, but Thranduil didn’t see, his joy blinding him to the possibility of deceit.

They made love one last time on the shores of Middle-earth, despite Vlad’s protest that sex on a beach was highly unsanitary. He listed off possible infections between kisses while Thranduil pressed him down into the sands and pushed inside him. At the height of passion, the vampire bit him, as he sometimes did, and drank from him, making the elf climax and pass out.

When he woke, he was on one of the ships bound for Valinor.

And Vlad was not.

“ _Vlad?!”_

Thranduil had demanded an audience with the Valar, and asked that they permit Vlad and Sahar entrance into Valinor. (The elder vampire had offered immortality to his children, but they had turned him down and ultimately passed away.) His request was refused, no matter how many times he asked.

But over time, even the Valar grew old and weary, and the guarded weakened at the Door of Night. Morgoth broke free at last and returned to Arda, gathering his commanders and armies from the secret places of the world, and marched on Valinor. The Sun went almost completely dark, emitting only a dim blood red light, and the Moon became a void that blocked out the light of the stars as it passed.

In response, the halls of Mandos and Aulë were opened, Elves and dwarves returning in droves to the lands of the living. Men and hobbits came back as well, from a place no one knew. For a time there was rejoicing with the reunions of friends and lovers, parents and children, husbands and wives. But their joy soon turned grim, for war was upon them, the Last War, and the Prophecy of Mandos foretold that there losses would be terrible indeed.

_“Vlad! Answer me!”_

But then bats had begun fluttering out of the darkness, bearing messages from the last Night Lords, knowledge of the Enemy’s plans and the dispositions of the troops. It brought hope to even the most pessimistic warriors.

The skirmishes before the Dagor Dagorath were absolute _routs_. Morgoth’s men were slaughtered to a one. Even when the Final Battle – the Battle of Battles – arrived with the forces of darkness invading Valinor, everyone was ready, and in the end their losses were not so heavy as they might have been otherwise.

Sahar had already been found and reunited with her lover Eglaneth, the two women embracing and kissing as if they were not surrounded by an ocean of corpses. But Vlad… Vlad was still missing.

“Valar _damn_ it, Vlad! _Where are you?!”_

Thranduil had glimpsed him on the battlefield a few times. In many ways he was hard to miss, as there were only so many handsome men with fangs and claws, splattered in blood and gore and attired in dragonscale armor and wielding a dragonbone sword. Even the Valar had feared to face him as terrible as he had seemed.

Now he was gone, vanished into the stillness after the battle –

A whisper on the wind. A bat flew out of the dark to cling to his armor. _“Master hears you, Master’s mate,”_ the little creature whispered, _“Master is sorry, but he is too tired to call out to you. He is this way.”_

She took off, and Thranduil raced after her. They travelled for miles it seemed, until at last he spotted Vlad slumped against a large rock cracked right down the middle by the battle. He was still enough that he looked to have passed into his corpselike recovery state, but he stirred and opened his eyes when the elf knelt next to him. He blinked, then smiled.

“You damned fool,” the Elvenking whispered, and pulled the vampire into his arms.

“We won?” the vampire rasped.

“Yes. Thanks to you. Less than a tenth of our force died. The enemy was slaughtered entirely, every last man and beast.”

“And the gems? The Silmarils?”

“They’ve been recovered.” Thranduil looked to the north, and saw a distant glow starting to appear in the hills toward the remains of the Two Trees and the Ring of Doom. “It will happen soon. Arda will be reborn, and we’ll all be at peace.”

Vlad sighed against his throat. “Shame I won’t be there to see it.”

“ _What?_ What are you talking about?!”

“I’m a creature of darkness, Thranduil,” he breathed, clutching at the elf’s cloak, “When the light comes, it will destroy me. Me and Sahar, and all the others.”

“No,” the king protested, holding Vlad tight enough that their armor ground together, “It’s not – it can’t – the blessing of that sun goddess-“

“Amaterasu’s been gone for millennia. The fact that the enchantment’s held on this long is a miracle.” The vampire managed to pull the pendant out from under his armor. It was a simple-looking piece of deeply colored citrine, worn smooth on all sides by its long years of service. “Her priestesses have come back, yes, but even they can’t save me from this.”

_“No-That’s not-“_

“It’s already done.”

The glow of the distant hills was growing brighter with every second.

_“I don’t want us to end this way,”_ Thranduil choked out, tears blurring his vision.

Vlad just smiled, and pulled him down into a kiss.

Rays of light from the Ring of Doom blasted away the darkness. The power of it shattered the crystal, and Vlad screamed in agony as he started to burn, armor and flesh alike blistering and boiling. Even when Thranduil threw himself over the vampire, trying to shield him from the light, its purity still reached him. The Impaler weakened fast, his struggles slowing, and he met the Elvenking’s gaze one last time, his eyes glowing bright red as his powers tried to heal him-

-and then the world went white.

* * *

Thranduil woke in his forest. He was standing hidden in the trees, watching his wife picnic by the riverside with Legolas, Gimil, Tauriel, and Kíli. They were all laughing at something the red-haired dwarf had said, something he probably hadn’t intended to be amusing if his indignant protests were anything to go by.

The Elvenking felt his lips twitch upward, despite the sorrow he felt.

To him, love had always been like fire, and he loved both his wife and the vampire in different ways. With her, it was a warm hearth in the dead of winter, burning deep and comforting, easily fueled, easily sustained. She had been so easy to love, and so hard to forget. It warmed every part of him at all times, left him content even in the blackest moments, knowing that she loved him too.

With Vlad it was a raging inferno, unstoppable, uncontrollable. The flames blazed through every part of him, burning away everything that mattered but those stolen moments with the vampire – but fire cleanses, and once his passion was slaked, it left him feeling clean and clearheaded. He could go for months without feeling the tiniest spark, but then something would remind him of the Impaler Prince, or they would see one another again, and the fires would come roaring back as if they had never gone.

But now they never would.

Unbidden, his gaze blurred with tears once more. Though he squeezed his eyes shut to stop them falling, they defied him and slid down his cheeks, silent expression of his grief.

And his last memory of Vlad was him burning. Not the simple sorrow of old age, or the sharp swiftness of battle, but slow, writhing agony. The Valar were cruel to end him – and Sahar – in such a way, however inadvertently, after they had done so much to help them.

Arda was restored, but at a cost too great for him. Thranduil lowered his head, and let his tears drip into the soil.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Footsteps behind him. A familiar hand on his shoulder. The Elvenking looked – and inhaled sharply, fresh tears filling his eyes.

It was him. The Impaler Prince reborn as an immortal elf, elegant and graceful in ways he had never been, but still undeniably himself. He grinned as bright as the sun, his teeth no longer fangs but still sharper than normal none the less.

Thranduil jerked him into an embrace, one that the former vampire quickly returned. Then he pulled back, tilted his head, and pressed their lips together in a gentle but fierce kiss.

* * *

_These are days and nights of venom and blood_  
_Heroes will rise as the anchors fall_  
 _Brave the strife, reclaim every soul_  
 _That belongs to the Beauty of Dawn_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! Maybe. I thought about ending it where the gap was, but then I decided that I'm not that cruel and put the last bit in.  
> Also, all chapter titles are the names of songs from The Elder Scrolls soundtracks. I highly, HIGHLY recommend listening to "Beauty of Dawn" from the ESO soundtrack; it is AMAZING.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on tumblr [here.](http://i-hope-they-have-wifi-in-hell.tumblr.com)


End file.
